


Something Borrowed

by Lapin



Series: Bridal Veil [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of fics/ficlets that do not quite belong in the rest of the parts of the <em>Bridal Veil</em> universe. </p><p>Or, the thoughts of Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin, Dori and the rest of them during, before and after the events of <em>Something Blue</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N I missed this 'verse.

It does not happen like Thorin was told it would happen. Dwalin always described it as something like a sword being thrust into the fire, not even knowing what cold was until it knew heat. His own mother had said it was like a door opening in what you thought was a wall. 

For Thorin, it's like an itch under his skin, an annoyance he cannot explain. Bilbo Baggins bothers him, his very presence nagging at Thorin until he cannot ignore it, until his temper snaps and he says yet another impatient thing to their burglar. His temper has never been particularly good, but nor has it even been as short as Bilbo makes it. 

Bilbo Baggins is at least as unimpressed with Thorin as Thorin is with him, so there are no hard feelings about the whole matter, and that gives Thorin some relief. He does not like feeling so unreasonable, does not like the idea of being a bully to someone who has done little to deserve it. 

It's not even that he dislikes Bilbo Baggins, not really. He's not unlikeable. Quiet, yes, and there are plenty of times that Thorin can see him biting back words that are probably snide, and he is a bit fussy and particular, but he is not bad company in general. Thorin has bedded down with fussier, more particular people, Dori, for example, and he has traveled with quieter, like Bifur, and he has been friends with people who were all too willing to tell Thorin exactly what they thought of him, Dís being the example that most quickly came to mind. 

There is something about Master Baggins that finds its way down into the marrow of Thorin's bones, digging in and refusing to leave, infecting him like a poison he has never encountered. He finds his eyes falling on the Halfling when he is not mindful of himself, catches himself brushing against the smaller body when he has no reason to. 

Bilbo Baggins is not a Dwarf. He does not look anything like a Dwarf. He's small like them, yes, but he's smaller than even most Dwarrows, around the same height as little Ori, actually. His body is small too, less broad in the shoulder and chest than a Dwarf, his limbs thinner than even the skinniest Dwarven child. He is soft too, in a way Dwarrows never are. He wears no beard or mustache, and his hair is short. He wears no shoes either, a strange habit of his people that Thorin cannot quite understand. 

He does not look like a Dwarf, and yet, Thorin's gaze is drawn to him for reasons he cannot discern. 

A night comes when they take shelter under trees, and Thorin wakes in the night more aroused than he can remember being in years. His mind is all too eager to betray him, refusing to forget the dream that brought on the state, the thought of Master Baggins in Thorin's arms. 

He rubs at a phantom ache in his chest absentmindedly instead of taking care of it, the cold of the night and distracted thoughts doing the job for him. Around him, his Company sleeps, except for Dwalin, perched on a rock with an axe across his knees. Thorin watches his friend for a time in his still half-alert state, watches how Dwalin's eyes inevitably stray in the direction of Nori, as they always do. 

He's distracted, Thorin notes, and rises, giving up on sleep to sit beside him. His watch is next anyway. 

Dwalin exhales, and says nothing. He knows he's been caught. He must feel it in Thorin's heavy judgment. 

“He is not worth your time,” Thorin says, as he has many times before. 

“He is my One,” Dwalin replies, as he always does. “He is my One heart, the other half of my soul. I can never not look at him when he is near me.”

“It helps that he's rather easy on the eyes,” Thorin reminds him, and Dwalin chuckles. “How did you get a 'Ri?” 

“I used to ask myself that every time,” Dwalin says, shaking his head. “I admit, it was something of a relief when it all went bad. I knew it was too good to last. I knew Mahal would never let me keep someone so pretty, so clever.” 

To Thorin, it all sounds like a bit too much to handle. He himself has had enough pain in his story, and a One like Nori, a tale like Dwalin's and Nori's, seems like far too much hassle on top of the trouble he already has to deal with every day. 

Around them, the Company snores on, unaware of their conversation. His sister-sons sleep to his right near the elder Brothers 'Ri, Fíli on his back between Kíli and Ori. Ori is closest to Nori and Dori, curled up against Fíli, Kíli next to his elder brother, but turned away on his side. It seems unbalanced without Gimli there as well, but in that, Thorin had agreed with Glóin. The lad is too young still for this sort of journey, the other three just barely old enough to be allowed. 

Glóin himself sleeps beside his own elder brother, and near them, the Ur family are sprawled out. With them, Bilbo Baggins sleeps, his small form almost lost between Bombur and Bofur. 

There's something about the way Bilbo's sleeping head is almost touching the middle of Bofur's back that bothers Thorin. The idea itself is not distasteful, Thorin supposes. There is no reason that Master Baggins should not take up with one of the Company for the journey for warmth and companionship. His own mind has turned traitor though, and it dislikes the idea of Bilbo taking up with anyone but himself. It's a casual sort of jealousy that Thorin has never experienced before, and it makes him unsure. 

“What do you think of our burglar now that you have known him longer?” Thorin asks, curious. 

“He's a good sort,” Dwalin says with a shrug. “Reminds me a little of Dori at times, but not the parts of Dori that irritate me.”

“I would think anything that reminded you of Dori would aggravate you,” Thorin muses, and finds himself under Dwalin's heavy gaze. “What is it?”

“Does he bother you?” Dwalin asks. “Is that what this is about?”

“No,” Thorin lies, standing to stretch his legs. “I'll be back in a moment.”

The woods are filled with the light of the moon and the stars cutting through the trees. Thorin rests against one large oak, and watches the movement around him, listens to the night creatures scurrying about over the dead leaves. He sees the light on the curve of an owl's wing as it silently glides by, hunting something he cannot discern, even with his night vision. 

He longs to be under rock, to be safe and sound within a mountain, his mountain, his home. His kingdom, Erebor. He feels as though it calls to him even from this distance, beckoning him back to the halls he took his first steps in, the yards where he first swung a sword, the Library he so often hid in as a child. He knows intellectually that those halls are layered with dust and mold, that parts of them have likely collapsed after years of neglect and abuse from the wyrm. The cultivated moss that had softened the grounds of those yards is likely dead now. Many of the Library's books and scrolls have long rotted away, the great tapestries that had lined the walls faded and unraveled. 

Somehow though, these thoughts do not break his heart like he once thought they might. Instead, they fill him with fire, the urge to rebuild his kingdom and make it great again. He will, he knows. He will breathe life into Erebor again, amputate what the dragon has left beyond repair, so that his mountain will heal for their people. 

There's a brief flicker of thought, the idea of having someone beside him as he does these things, and in that thought, the one is Bilbo Baggins. The idea is laughable, a barefooted Hobbit in the great halls of a Dwarven kingdom, likely getting lost every hour. And what would Master Baggins do without his precious flowers and sunshine, his crockery and books? He would go mad, no doubt. 

Still though, once the seed is planted, there it stays. 

It stays and grows without his notice, as they continue their quest, and again and again, he finds his spare thoughts with the Halfling. It torments him when it should not, and he does not understand. 

He does not understand. 

Even on the Carrock, when he embraces Bilbo, when something in his chest aches in a way it never has, he still cannot make pick or axe of it. In Beorn's Hall, it nags at him, the ache he cannot comprehend that bothers him when he is not otherwise occupied, when his thoughts have nowhere else to turn. 

When he speaks to Bilbo, as he often does now, he finds his thoughts do not wander to other things. He focuses on Bilbo, on the way he laughs easily, the way he feels free enough to mutter his little asides aloud now, the way he speaks so easily on histories and literature with Ori and sciences with Óin and Glóin. Bilbo's cleverness is not unexpected, but it is more intriguing than Thorin thought it would be. 

Thorin finds himself speaking to Bilbo about things he has not had time for in many years. He talks of Dwarven history, of Dwarven art and song, and of other things he once loved, before his kingdom was stolen, before his grandfather's head was thrown across the battlefield and his father was lost to him forever. Before his beloved mother succumbed to the illness the dragon gifted his people with, and his sister was forced to give birth to his heirs in exile. 

He has been forced to endure so much over these long years, and he has forgotten so much of the things that once brought him joy. Bilbo reminds him of those things with hardly any effort, and Thorin finds something similar within them. 

It is not until they are free of Mirkwood's hold and safe from meeting their early deaths at the bottom of a river that Thorin, soaked to the bone, his hair dripping around his face, looks up to see Bilbo Baggins safe and sound as well, and he knows. 

He looks at Bilbo Baggins and knows, the same way he knows how to craft a sword and wield it too. The knowledge is deep in his bones, running through every nerve and muscle, every breath in his lungs and beat in his heart. He knows why his Longing was never satisfied by any Dwarf, why he has never felt the pull towards anyone. 

It's because his One was waiting for him in the green, rolling hills of the Shire, not under a mountain. His One is not a Dwarf, but a Hobbit, a Halfling, a creature shaped not by the Maker, but another altogether. He is not carved from rock, but grown from the fresh dark earth and nurtured by the bright sunshine. 

He has found his One, and it is not at all like he was told. 

He says nothing, his tongue stayed by a cowardice he had not thought himself capable of. The Hobbit looks at him as a friend, laughs and smiles with Thorin, listens to Thorin play his harp when the boys acquire fiddles from the people of Lake Town. He watches when Thorin sings the old tales, resting against the arm of a chair built for a Man, his eyes bright in the light of the fire. 

Thorin longs for him in a way he never has for anyone else, but he remains quiet. Bilbo respects him, yes, of that Thorin is sure, but Thorin is not who he was. He is a crownless king, a Dwarf without home, nothing but a nomadic blacksmith for now. His pride refuses to allow him to go to his One with nothing in hand, to be less than what he might be for the other half of him. 

Dwalin finds it amusing, as he should, Thorin supposes. 

“All your talk of my cowardice, me being a clod-tongued idiot, and look at you now,” Dwalin laughs, leaning on his axe from the rock they sit on out on the jetty over the waters. “He makes calf-eyes at you every chance he gets, and you think he might refuse you?” 

Thorin scoffs. “Do not confuse mine for your own husband.” 

In these close quarters, Thorin can no longer call Dwalin hopeless. Nori's eyes wander back to Dwalin when he believes no one else will see, and stay on him for long moments. Thorin is not talented enough at discerning people as to tell whether or not there is still love between the two of them, but Nori is not watching for nothing. 

“Will you ever reconcile?” Thorin asks, a question he's never asked before. He's never thought it was his business, really, but soon they leave for Erebor, and they might all very well die. No point in leaving questions unanswered. 

“Ask me again after the dragon is dead, if we don't die ourselves in the process,” Dwalin answers. 

“I'll hold you to that,” Thorin replies, intending to, provided they do in fact live. “Perhaps he will be so awed by your bravery in battle, he will again fall into your arms.”

“Perhaps Smaug will develop a taste for trees and go roost in Thranduil's cursed wood.” 

They both laugh. 

They do not laugh again for a long time, not together at least. The good mood that they had all enjoyed in the town is fleeting, as Thorin thought it might be. Nothing good ever lasts long in his life, or at least nothing has yet. 

His sister-sons lie in a tent away from his, Kíli still sleeping, Fíli injured but surviving. Thorin cannot say the same of himself. 

The madness has slipped away from him like a dream, the days he spent roaming the mountain in search of that cursed rock blending into one long day that he cannot remember clearly. He has been told by his friend what he has done in his insanity. 

“He has left then?” Thorin dares to ask, when Dwalin finishes the tale of Thorin hanging Bilbo, hanging his One, over the side of the wall. “Gone home with that wizard?” The wizard who had used them ill to his own ends, Thorin is sure. The old trickster was plotting behind Thorin's back the whole time, using him and his family to fulfill some goal Thorin has no hope of seeing, and that is not the madness talking he is sure. 

“In fact, no,” Dwalin says, his elbows on his knees. “He remains with us. I believe he waits for word on you, my king. He waits to see whether you will live.” 

“A future still in question, “ Thorin admits, rolling his eyes. He wishes his body would make up its mind to go one way or the other. He has not the patience for anymore drawn-out suffering in his long life, and if he is to die, he wishes to simply die and get it over with already. “Is he hale?”

“No,” Dwalin says with a shake of his head. “He took a blow to the head. He'll be alright, the healers believe, but he is rather weak at the moment. Still a bit light-sensitive and restless. Do you wish to see him?” His friend gives a hard look, one Thorin is too tired to attempt to understand, then says, “Balin tells me what he has told you.” 

Thorin closes his eyes, and tries to breathe without hurting his battered ribs. Balin has told him much over the past few days, as has his cousin Dáin. Balin has been perhaps less subtle than Dáin, not an easy task. His cousin has awkwardly hinted around the idea that his generals, some once Thorin's own, before they abandoned him, have no doubt pushed him towards. 

Balin has been the advisor he once was in Erebor, reminding Thorin of his duties to Erebor, the alliances he must strengthen now before the old hurts come back to the forefront of everyone's minds. Someone from the Men, or a Dwarf from Dáin's own will do, Balin advises without emotion. Dáin has a marriage-cousin from his late wife's side that might do, Balin tells him. 

The words feel like weights upon Thorin, and Dwalin must know from the way he looks at Thorin. 

“Will you go to the halls of our ancestors and face the Maker with your soul still torn in two, Thorin?” Dwalin asks, a bit kinder than he might were Thorin not so injured. “Will you marry another and lie before your people? Lie about your One?” A grievous lie amongst their people, and Dwalin has hit Thorin's weakness by pulling his people into it. He cannot die so dishonoured in their eyes, cannot let them believe their king was a craven creature who would lie even in death. 

Nor can he stand before the Maker and admit he turned away from his One, the other half of himself.

“Get Balin,” he orders, and Dwalin stands to do as he is told. “Say nothing to the Halfling.” 

“Have I ever?” Dwalin is gone before Thorin finds the strength to turn his head towards the opening of the tent. Their talk has worn him out, and he longs for sleep again. More than that though, he longs for Bilbo, so that he might apologise, might offer himself to the Hobbit now as a crowned king with a mountain. 

There is no doubt in his heart that Bilbo will refuse him. Still though, Thorin would like to say he had the courage to offer. 

When Balin obeys his order and brings Bilbo to him, giving Thorin a reproachful look over the top of the Hobbit's bandaged head, Thorin finds his courage does not fail even in the face of his greatest fear. Bilbo is looking at Thorin again, and it is nothing like he looked at Thorin on those long nights when Thorin played his harp. He is frightened, pale and drawn, and Thorin has no idea how much of it is from his injury, and how much of it is caused by being in Thorin's presence. 

He approaches when Thorin beckons, and Thorin can see the dark circles beneath his eyes, the red at the corners. His One has been weeping, and Thorin wonders what it is for.

“Why do you cry?” he asks, because he might die, and he wants to know. 

“Why do you think, you great idiot?” Bilbo asks with a sniff. “They say you might still die. I keep thinking you will before I can apologise for what I did, for my betrayal -”

Thorin shakes his head and reaches out his hand. To his very great surprise, Bilbo takes it, and allows Thorin to settle it on the blankets still joined with his. “Dwalin has told me what I did, in my madness. How I hurt you, tried to kill you.” 

“You were not yourself,” Bilbo excuses, so very polite, even now. “You were possessed by it. So were the others.” 

“I nearly led my sister-sons to their deaths,” Thorin says, all but ready to weep himself over the thought. “They nearly died, Bilbo. They so very nearly died, and for what? For that rock? For gold?” 

Bilbo sits beside him on the bed, and takes Thorin's hand in both of his. “No, Thorin, no. They nearly died for Erebor, for _you_. For love and loyalty to you, to not see you fall in battle. They do not regret it, even now. Or at least Fíli doesn't, I know.” Kíli still sleeps, of course. Thorin does not know if the younger boy regrets his decisions now. 

“And you?” Thorin asks, desperate to know. “Do you regret following us, following me, to this end?” 

“I regret nothing,” Bilbo says, easing some of the pain in Thorin's heart.

“Then I must ask you one more thing, my friend. You have heard what they say about the camps, about myself and a marriage?” When Bilbo nods, Thorin continues. “If I am to leave this world, Bilbo, I have no desire to do so on a lie. And if I live, I will be all the worse, married to someone I cannot trust, cannot ever love.”

“Thorin, I don't think you realize how bad it's all getting. There's been more than one brawl between the Dwarves and the Men, and the Elves are not helping, I'm sorry to say. Apparently, the only thing Thranduil dislikes more than you is the idea of his ally married to a Man -” Bilbo stops when Thorin raises his other hand. He can feel his own trembling, and the pain is fast-approaching unbearable, but he will not take anything, not just yet. He needs his head clear for this. 

“I have no desire to be married to someone who does not have Erebor's best interest in mind,” Thorin says, feeling a bit desperate now. “You at least I know have no ulterior motives, nothing that would ever allow you to be manipulated, and unlike the rest of us, you understand the importance of things like friendship, and parties, and joy. You do not see the value in cold metal, but in the warmth of good company.” And this is what Thorin needs, this reminder of what is truly important in this life. His friends, his sister-sons, and his One, this little Hobbit who even now looks as though he might start to cry again. 

Bilbo's eyes are wet within a moment, the tears catching on his eyelashes before they start to trail down his face. “Thorin, what are you asking me?” 

“To do me a favour greater than you can ever understand,” Thorin says, as close to a confession as he can manage. He wants to say more, wishes he could, but he looks at Bilbo now and knows he cannot. He might die, he might, and he would like to die believing that Bilbo loves him, whether it is true or not. 

If he lives, perhaps then he might find the courage to face the truth, whatever it might be.

“You want me to marry you,” Bilbo says, not a question. “Thorin, I...are you sure?”

“I may yet die, my friend,” he reminds Bilbo, finding his breathing difficult from too many words all at once. “So perhaps I would make you a widower before long, if you accept the offer. Either way, the matter will be settled.” Dáin would not find fault with this, he trusts. Nor would Bard, if Dáin gave his approval. Even Thranduil might be pleased, as pleased as he can be with a Dwarf. “Bilbo...”

“Yes,” Bilbo breathes, looking away. “If that's what you want from me, yes. I will marry you, Thorin.” 

Thorin smiles, or at least tries to. “Get Balin,” he tells him. “Please.” 

It is not what a royal wedding should be, but it is what theirs should be. Thorin chooses one of his own rings, the sapphire one he had received from his father on a birthday long ago, when Erebor stood. It's been a bittersweet reminder of times better, but sliding it onto Bilbo's finger feels more like a promise towards an Erebor standing strong again. 

It's far too big for Bilbo's finger, but his clever Hobbit borrows a leather lace from Balin's vambrace and winds it around the bottom of the ring, until it is small enough it might fit until it's re-sized. The sight of his ring on Bilbo's finger kindles the fire in his heart until it blazes like Thorin was once told it would. 

The wizard takes his new husband away when the healers come, so that they can check his wounds without an unnecessary audience. Once they are done, they tell him the good news, that there is no sign of deeper damage, that they believe he will live to rule Erebor. 

Then he sleeps from their draughts. 

When he awakens, it is to Dwalin keeping watch, smiling when he catches Thorin's eyes open. “So his Majesty wakes at last. Hardly king for two minutes and you're already a lazy sod.” 

“I will get out of this bed eventually,” Thorin warns him. “Where is Bilbo?”

Dwalin smirks. “Your new husband sleeps, like he should.” His expression turns serious, and he asks, “What should we tell everyone, Thorin? There are already rumours, and I want to know what story you want told to everyone.”

Thorin touches his weak but healing ribs with the hand that once wore the sapphire. “Tell no story, Dwalin. Tell the truth. Tell them all the truth.” 

“And Bilbo?” Dwalin asks. 

“I have time now,” Thorin says. “I have time to earn his love. When I do, I will tell him,” he swears. “I will tell him all.” 

The hand that once wore the sapphire feels heavy, as do his eyes, so he shuts them again, and falls back into a drugged sleep. 

When he wakes for the second time, the dawn is creeping through the break in the tent flaps, illuminating Bilbo, asleep on the little couch that had appeared from somewhere, likely Dáin but possibly Thranduil. The morning light turns his hair blond against the bandage, and catches on the sapphire on his hand. 

He had time now. They had time. He would find out the price of Bilbo's heart, and gladly pay it. He would not stand before his Maker as only half of a whole. 

He would not live as half of a whole.


	2. The Legacy of a 'Ri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone looks at Dori, and Nori protects his brother.
> 
> Except one of their company. Then, it is Dori's turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verrrry short, brief idea. Remember that this one is a series of ficlets/fics, not a full fic.

Bofur finds himself with a very, very sharp knife being pressed against where his ear joins his jaw one fine morning, and swallows. It's audible, and he doesn't think that's just his nerves telling him so. 

“'Lo Nori,” he says cheerily, or tries to. “Fine morning isn't it?”

“Let's not mince words,” Nori replies, not very cheery at all. “If I catch you watching my dear elder brother bathe again, I'll slit you from here -,” his knife follows down, along Bofur's lips, and up across the opposite cheek to touch the other ear, “- to here. Understand?”

“Never thought I'd get to see a 'Ri bathing,” Bofur mutters, and winces, amazed by his own stupidity. 

“Treasure it,” Nori hisses, and then he's gone. 

Bofur relaxes a hair, and eyes his cousin beside him. Bifur has continued sharpening his blade throughout the whole ordeal, but now he glances up at Bofur and signs sarcastically, “Was it worth it?”

He thinks on it a minute, and then nods. “Yes.”

♦

Bombur is happily married, with two children of his own, twin girls even. He's prouder than he knows how to say of that, but he keeps it to himself for now. The girls are young still, after all, and he doesn't want to give anyone the idea they'll be up for any marriages until he knows that for a fact.

Still, he thinks his wife will forgive him for this, though she had given him a stern reminder when she found out that he would be traveling with three 'Ri. He knew if he ever dared act on one thought, his beard would be on her wall before he could so much as say _hello_ when he saw her again. 

That could not come soon enough, no matter how many 'Ri there were in his company for him to look at.

He _is_ looking, make no mistake, but Temmi would not mind _looking_ , so long as it is only looking and nothing more. 

Besides, she'd looked too, the minx. “Well,” she'd said, side-eyeing him. “If it's anyone, let it be the eldest, and I would like an invitation.”

He misses her like burning, his Temmi, and that's what makes him look away on the night Dori is combing out his lovely silver hair in the firelight. He might be a 'Ri, but he is not Bombur's wife.

♦

Thorin is not blind.

He had known it was a mistake to bring not one, not two, but _three_ 'Ri on this journey. Nori had volunteered though, and Thorin had wanted him at the very least. His looks were only outmatched by his skills, and Thorin badly needed those skills. Much as it pained him to admit, the Company was too small and inexperienced to go without someone of Nori's profession. 

Nori had been bad enough, not only for his looks, but for the bitter history between Dwalin and him. Thorin does not pretend that he is privy to all that goes on in his friend's mind, but he does know that Dwalin loves Nori still, and that the nomad is a distraction to his right hand. He's trouble of the worst sort, and if Thorin had his way, if there was any other option, he would not have allowed it.

There hadn't been another though, and so Nori had signed on, for better or for worse. 

Then Ori had signed on as well, following Fíli like Thorin had suspected he might, and his sister-son had been too grateful for it for Thorin to turn the lad away. Fíli had already sacrificed so much for Thorin, he could not bring himself to part the boy from his love. Especially when Thorin had his own suspicions about just how deep that love ran.

But then Dori had completed the set, and Thorin had been tempted to bang his head into the wall and ask the Maker what he had done to deserve this. Nori and Ori were trouble enough to have along, both so pretty, and both with such ties to those dearest to him. 

Thorin has a One, and it is not Dori, no matter how many Dwarrows had wished it to be their fate. That does not mean he's blind to how lovely Dori is, did not mean his eyes did not stray towards the other Dwarf when it was most inconvenient. Even after he knew the truth of his heart, after the ride down the river, he still watched Dori. Why shouldn't he? He had no promises with Bilbo. Bilbo seems to hardly desire his company even now, even when Thorin thought they might be friends.

Then came a night in Lake Town, when Dori decides his hair needs to be brushed out in front of the fire, and Thorin watches without shame. It has been a long time since he has lain with another, and now he wonders if Dori would be unopposed to an offer. Thorin is not hard on the eyes after all, and Dori seems to enjoy his company well enough. It might be a nice reprieve for the both of them, a bit of warmth to tide them both over.

When he thinks to rise and go make his offer though, he notices Bilbo, sees the way Bilbo's eyes dart between the two of them before falling back to his own little letter-opener, and Thorin is ashamed. 

Bilbo is his One, the other half of his soul, and Thorin has allowed his eyes to fall on Dori. Why? To spit in his Maker's face? To lead Bilbo to believe that there is nothing between himself and Thorin? 

Thorin turns his eyes to his own sword, and concentrates on sharpening it for the days ahead.

♦

Óin and Glóin are both married Dwarrows, both with children, and they still find themselves smirking over Dori.

“My wife would not fault me,” Glóin says, knowing it to be true. His wife and him have always agreed that as long as no children will come about and they are discreet, they are free to lay with who they will. They love each other after all, and that is never something they need to question. But sometimes his wife enjoys the company of the artist around the corner, and sometimes Glóin enjoys a night with another Dwarf. 

She had laughed when she had seen the Company, and pulled him close to whisper her conditions in his ear. “Dori or Nori you may have your fun with, but if I hear so much as a whisper that you put your hands on little Ori, it shall be myself and Sani raising Gimli, while you feed the corn, yes?” 

He had laughed, and pulled her close for a kiss, and thinking of that, he misses her and Gimli more than anything. It's lonely to go from a happy household to a quest with only his brother and a few others for company. “Aye, but he would be enough to chase away the chill, would he not, brother?” he asks, thinking that he might alleviate his loneliness with the eldest 'Ri. 

Nori is easy on the eyes as well, of course, but he does not fancy waking to Dwalin's axe in his chest.

“That he would, little brother, that he would,” Óin agrees amiably, measuring out a few dried herbs. 

A chill of a different sort descends upon them both when a hand clamps down on their shoulders, and a particularly lovely face inserts itself between them. 

Nori _is_ beautiful, in a different way than his brother, but there is something very dangerous in his beauty, especially now, with the way he smiles. Well, it could be a smile. His teeth are showing at least. 

Not for the first time, Glóin thinks Nori and Dwalin are well-suited for one another.

“Keep your private thoughts private, brothers,” Nori cautions, and the pair of them fall silent in fear. The nomad is no warrior, true, but he is something more frightening entirely. “Or I shall make sure you do not have the tongues to express them, yes?” 

He is gone before they might respond, not that they have much of one.

"A chill is good for strengthening the lungs," Óin says as soon as Nori is out of earshot. 

Glóin nods, agreeing with his far wiser brother.

♦

“My stars, it's like dogs in heat,” Bilbo mutters to himself when Dori comes back from his bath, his long hair over his shoulder.

Thorin chuckles, and the way his blue eyes look in the firelight make Bilbo's heart race in the most uncomfortable way.

♦

Kíli grins when Dori passes him, and gets an elbow in his side for his trouble.

“Stop it,” Fíli cautions, and Kíli elbows him back.

“Either I look at him, or your intended, take your pick,” he warns, and Fíli frowns. Kíli makes a face back, daring Fíli to give him permission to look at Ori the way he wants to. Ori might be his beloved brother's One, but Kíli has eyes thank you very much, and his brother's One is very easy on those eyes. Not that he would touch. Kíli is still terrified of Nori. Not so much Fíli or Ori. His brother and almost-brother do love him, after all. Nori, on the other hand, has already held a knife to the parts Kíli values above all others. “I _could_ look at Ori, if you like.”

“I will cut off your balls,” Fíli threatens through his teeth.

“Then I'm going to look at Dori,” Kíli declares. “Because Nori will -”

“Nori will cut off your balls if you look at either of his brothers,” a voice warns, and Kíli almost jumps out of his skin. “I'll give you a pass, oh golden one, but you -,” and now Nori turns to Kíli, “You keep your eyes to yourself, yes?”

Kíli nods, his terror warring with his cock, which insists that anyone as pretty as Nori is welcome in its vicinity no matter how many knives Nori has hidden about his person. Oh, Nori is very desirable, and by the Maker, Kíli needs to get his cock in line with his sanity. 

“And no,” Nori says, so close that his hair is touching Kíli's skin. “You have no chance, little princeling. But I hope I'm a nice dream for you.”

“The nicest for you too, I bet,” Kíli dares, his mouth faster than his mind. 

“Oh, little princeling,” Nori teases, his mouth by Kíli's ear. “You'd have no idea what to do with me.” 

“I might,” he calls, even as Nori saunters away. “I do,” he says to Fíli's knowing smirk. 

“I'm sure,” his brother says, in a way that makes Kíli want to punch him.

So he does.

♦

Balin watches Dori.

There was a time he would have given Dori the Arkenstone itself.

♦

Bifur smiles at Dori, a smile, not a leer. He was raised a bit better than that, for one, and for another, he is too damaged to be leering at anyone. Dori is beautiful, yes, but Bifur sees his kindness too, the way he cares for his younger brothers and how gentle he is with Bilbo, the soft little Hobbit. Bifur asks his cousin to be kind to the creature for his sake, and Bofur does as he asks, but Bifur never said a word to Dori. He never had to. 

Dori is kind without prompting, helping Bifur gather kindling when his hands shake, interpreting for him when Bofur and Bombur are out of reach, reminding the princes not to startle him.

When Bifur spies Dori brushing out his hair in the baths in Lake Town, he tries to excuse himself with a sign of apology, but instead, Dori holds out the comb. 

“I could use a hand,” he says aloud. 

“I would be happy to help,” Bifur signs back. And he is. Because Dori is kind.

When Nori appears in the doorway as well, all his titian hair down, reaching past his waist like Dori's, he eyes Bifur up and then says to Dori, signing too, because Nori can be as polite as Dori when it suits him, "This one?"

"Don't be nosy," Dori sniffs in the imperious way he has around his little brothers. "No one asked you to play protector." 

"No one asked me," Nori repeats mockingly. "No one had to ask me, I had to do it all on my own because you _insist_ on walking around with your hair down like an idiot, you're just asking for them to behave like slobbering morons -" His voice fades as he stomps away, out of earshot. 

Bifur sets aside the comb so he can sign, "He knows his own hair is down, yes?"

"Do not question Nori," Dori signs and says, using a different name-sign for the Dwarf than what Bifur has been using. Bifur has been using one that is similar to _nomad_ , while Dori's uses one that means _red_. "He is a stubborn little creature." There is a sound of pain from the hall. "Who is perfectly capable of handling himself, most of the time."

♦

Dwalin is only watching one 'Ri, and it is not Dori.

Nori of course chooses to comb out his hair where Dwalin can see, because if Nori is good for anything, it is tormenting Dwalin. That seems to be his sole purpose in life, after all.

His One is beautiful, and Dwalin has no right to look at him, no right to turn his eyes upon one who he has wronged so horribly. He has none, and yet he looks.

He looks.

One day in Lake Town, one day when he is restless and upset, he looks down to see Dori at his side, the eldest of the 'Ri brothers not looking at him at all. Dori has had little to say to him in the long years that he and Nori have been estranged.

Now, Dori says, “Stay away from my little brother, Dwalin.”

“Or what?” Dwalin asks, unimpressed and angry still over what he is denied. 

“Or you will never look upon another thing,” Dori warns, and just like that, he is gone. 

Dwalin believes him. Nori is not who he is for nothing. 

He still watches Nori.


End file.
